When I was 16, I was gifted wings in the form of passport pages. I took flight like a Swift, migrating for months and years. Never settling for long, always seeking the next adventure. The only sign abandoned nests with fragments of my heart and moulted paper feathers. One day the air flows swept me further south than I have ever been.
Aotearoa, land of the longest white clouds and vibrant breathing hills. Never has a city felt like home. As Its' skyscrapers recede and traffic lights give way to rolling hills of Aroha-green that swell into forested mounts reaching for the pale blue sky hiding behind endless long white clouds, I am home. The restless itch in my wings subsides. My instincts tell me to build something permanent, something magnificent. Slowly I have been collecting all these pieces to make Aotearoa home. There is a fear that Immigration will force me to continue my migration, but I build anyway. Planting seeds in hopes the roots will anchor the tree of my cavity nest so deep they will fear uprooting me. I would shred my paper wings for the chance to be a flightless Kiwi.
Comments